FORGING AHEAD with the FIDDLE

Deciding to learn the fiddle in your fifties?  At the time, excitedly telling friends and family,  I was met with varying reactions: condescending smiles, hoots of derision, incredulous stares, but also, a few looks akin to awe.

I'd never been around the fiddle or violin.  Growing up, the only exposure I had to fiddle music was having to watch Don Messer.  But one day in 2010, I suddenly got an overwhelming compulsion, a lightning bolt out of the blue, for reasons only known by my subconscious, that I simply must get a fiddle and start playing.  Perhaps, listening to symphonic metal had twigged something in my brain.

As a child I took some piano lessons, when there was a teacher available in our small town. When I was about 15, I got a guitar, but never got good at it.  I wanted to learn "Classical Gas" or "Crazy on You" but didn't.  For over 40 years, I had no musical instruments at all, and only played a couple of songs on piano a couple of times a year when I got home to my folks.  Around 2006,  I got a guitar from my kids for Christmas.  Again, I tried to learn, with tips from musicians I knew, but just strumming chords didn't really do it for me.  I thought maybe because, I can't sing, I can't carry a tune in a bucket, that guitar is not right for me.  I guess I'd never be Nancy Wilson! I was a failure, not once, but twice!

(Gibby,  Dresden bridge)

Years after I left home, my dad had bought an old fiddle at an auction sale,  and it was just sitting in the basement.  I'd never even seen it.  So I asked him about it, if I could have it, and he was tickled pink. He told me when he first bought it, he had his brother George check it out, who said it was OK, but he thought the bridge was oddly shaped or customized.  I never even knew uncle George played the fiddle, only the guitar.  George had passed in 1991, so sadly I missed a great opportunity. I found out that my dad's family did grow up with the fiddle and their neighbour known as the old Swede,  built fiddles probably around the 1920's to 40's.  I  made the trip north to pick up the fiddle in March of 2010. It was an old Strad copy. I called it Gibby, or Gilbertina, after my dad.  After my first lesson, I drove away in tears, because I felt so stupid!! I'd never even held a fiddle before! The young lad who was my teacher,  later expressed envy at how lucky he thought I was, he would have loved to have been able to watch Don Messer!!

I practised daily, and told myself I'd be happy if I could play the Swallowtail jig in a year...I was playing it within weeks!  I'm still 'working on it".  My lessons were short-lived though, as James, my teacher, was now too busy with college, & never did get around to showing me "crooked" Metis fiddling as we had planned. But I was motivated to continue self learning.  I went through 2 books & then bought a book of  267 Cape Breton tunes & started on that. My dad and his two remaining siblings were happy that I was playing- there are no other fiddlers among the many cousins.  My aunt Ruthie was so interested in the Traveling Fiddle, she still asks me about it! When her husband was terminally ill,  Dad and I went out and I took my fiddle.  It really provided a lot of enjoyment at a tough time for them.  I just love how fiddling never fails to bring a smile on, no matter where you are or who you are with. 

(Left: Aunts Ruthie on piano, Marilyn on fiddle

 (right:  switcheroo, double exposure, circa mid 40's)

James said my fiddle was not very good, although it sounded fine when he played it (He is a champion fiddler) so after awhile I started thinking about getting a better one.  I got corresponding with Steve from the forum & he told me about some auctions where you could get a deal on a darn good fiddle if you watched the bidding closely.  So that's what I did, and I got one for not very much plus a better bow.  I call that one Sunnie.  I now keep the old fiddle at my parents' place.

Later on, I scored a beautiful electric one at a local independent guitar shop, for another great deal.  They were not selling, so their loss is my gain. With no amp, it's weight affecting an old shoulder injury I rarely play it.

(Gibby, Desi, Sunnie)

I fell in love with the cello a couple of years ago, and am now firmly convinced I need one.  I'm holding off on that for now.  But I also like the viola, and just a few weeks ago came across such a deal I could not pass up.  I am the queen of deals!

At first, I just wanted to learn Celtic jigs and reels.  Then I started enjoying the slow airs. I've been playing a Gaelic tune called Mo Nighean Dubh (I don't know what it means). But then my ear & my tastes have developed and changed somewhat thanks to Fiddlerman . I have learned, and been inspired,  by everyone!  I get to feeling that everyone there is my friend; and the Traveler has surely connected us.  I am so grateful for the opportunity of having the Traveler, & meeting up with Michelle, another member, as well as for the help I have received.  I haven't heard much lately from some of the old regulars, and I miss & wonder about them!  I am shy though,  so I do not have much of a presence there.  If I ever get to Florida I know where I am going!  I may never play as well as I'd like, or as well as the next person, but I play for my own enjoyment.  In all, it is a journey that I've began and it has no end, truly.   

To be able to play in front of others, with a group, participate in projects, and learn technical aspects of recording, changing strings, set up and such are goals as well as struggles, as is staying motivated. Opportunities abound if I open myself up to the challenge, I know.

My dream is an art & music studio.....at the remote intersection of Not Bloody Likely Street and Unrealistic Avenue.  Where metal and music meet, built Brick by Brick,  I might be hammering metal and more, throwing paint around, painting horses, wolves, and people, collecting crystals, making orgonite, reading, writing (no arithmetic) and other creative pursuits; playing music, live or dead, and inviting anyone who would like to join in, to come and hang out.

"The Forge" is where you'll find me, on the quarter  now owned by my dad, where the "Ole Swede's" log cabin still partially stands,  & accessible only by foot, where old Benny Eskelsson lived long before my time...played & built fiddles.....invented the eskelphone and gadgets...

It is said, that if you put your hand to one of the rotting logs of the cabin, and attune your ear to the northeast, and are very very still,  and listen just so, you may still hear the faint strains of ol' Benny's fiddle..filtering through the forest, to float on the feathery boughs of the far reaching firs....

Jolene, Joline, Joleen, Jolean!

The Broadway Theatre.  Broadway Avenue.  Saskatoon SK.  Trendy little neighborhood with hip little nightspots.  Lee Aaron, the Metal Queen.  Lee Aaron, now sultry jazz maven.  One night of jazz,  one chance encounter that inspired a poem.  Here we are, 14 years later.. a meshing of stories....Dolly and her "Jolene".   I revised my poem this weekend by adding a chorus. Here, then, is the history behind this poem, originally entitled: Mary Margaret Stella.

A name crossed my path the other day.  A name that brought back memories.  A name that belonged to a person, a woman, that, 14 years ago, inspired a portrait, and a poem.  A name, that i could only guess at. The guessing was incorrect, and as such, the name of the poem should perhaps be changed.  Or not.  I called it " Mary, Margaret, or Stella"....

Last night I watched a documentary about Dolly Parton and her song "Jolene".  It was actually written about a little girl, not a competitor for love.  My poem also was written to sound like 'the other woman' but it was written about a mother.  A strange thing, that her name is part of  the name "Jolene" and is also my second name.  It was only two days ago that I was spinning straw into gold, & found out her real name,  and then happened to view this documentary.  Whenever I hear the song Jolene,  to this day, it brings back a lot of memories, but that is a whole other story.

Years ago, when I wrote the poem, I wrote it after attending a concert (The metal queen going all jazzy, with Ralph Alfonso) at the Broadway Theatre, at which my former love interest at the time, was MC'ing.   It was either during the intermission, or at the end, I remember standing up, turning to leave my seat and enter the aisle, when an older woman walked right past me, and looked directly at me.  Her gaze seemed to bore holes into my eyes, as some inexplicable communication happened on a soul level...I knew - or at least I thought I knew---she had to be his mother.  And yes, yes indeed, I was right, she was. Is.  and now I know her name......

and the other odd ball thing?  When I wrote "your sun is rising" - I meant that he was doing so well, to be invited to act as MC at this event.  But,  a few years later.....he actually is raising a son....

The Lay of the Land

Shown here is an old map, created by Henry Youle Hind in the middle of the 19th century. At that time, no such province as Saskatchewan existed - it was part of a huge tract of unexplored (by Europeans) land-it was in what was then encompassed by the North West Territory.  I recently read Joan Soggie's book "Looking for Aitkow", (which was the name of both the valley and the creek connecting the Saskatchewan with the Qu'appelle) in which she regales us with stories,  rich with history of the area around the elbow of the South Saskatchewan River.  The map shows how it was in the 1850's, more than a century before the flooding of what is now known as Lake Diefenbaker.  The tale is told of the massive Sacred Stone known as the Mistaseni or Buffalo Child Stone, which was destroyed with the creation of the Gardiner Dam in 1966.  What a sad moment it was, in our province's history,  when this sacred rock was blown to bits. 

Even as a child, I was always fascinated by ancient artifacts, old crumbling buildings, old stories, and the possibility that hundreds of years ago, perhaps someone stood on the same spot that I now stood, and carved a secret signal or mark into a tree or a stone.  At a young age, I thought this to be true, that the marks on the aspens in the forest I used to frequent, was a secret language of the aboriginals who may have lived there.  My imagination knew no bounds.  Arrowheads, spear heads, certain rocks, fossils -treasure!  

Fast forward twenty years, and I now found myself no longer living in bush country, but on the prairie.  But there wasn't just prairie.  Living within walking distance, in 3 directions,  from what used to be the South Saskatchewan River, I was amazed at the topography.  Coulees, bays, cliffs, water runs, dry gullies, and gulches, and even, much farther south,  badlands!  The panoramic view looking from the hills to the Monster lake could take your breath away.  I was lucky enough to spend time walking & hunting in the hills.  One area in particular, slightly South of the Vermilion Hills, and toward the riverbank, (now lake) stole my soul away - the beauty of the inspiring landscape awes even as it humbles.  This is where, when my time is up, (half) my ashes can be flung to the wind, returned to Terra Sancta! 

The Aitkow, (the river that turns both ways) was flooded long before my move to that area.  I never knew of the bridge by the elbow of the river, but I could see the Elbow town elevators from my kitchen window.   (Which, from my calculations, is 11 miles as the crow flies) And I knew the reason that we farmed land owned by an Elbow resident- once the bridge was gone, it was no longer feasible to farm, to drive equipment around the Qu'appelle dam, now being about an hour drive. 

I plan on going back in the fall, and perhaps doing some hiking and cartography myself.  For that it would be helpful if I had my old friend and courier du bois Monsieur De Perreault to accompany me!!

Shadow Makers

I love this beautiful photo. (Credit: Paavo Lotjonen, Apocalyptica)  Shadowmakers.  To me it sings of beauty and emotion, not only the visual aspect of the photo, which in itself is dark and mysterious, gleaming with reflected light, but you can almost smell the earthiness of the old, faded, stamped case, and hear the shadows dancing.... (If, indeed, one could attune the ear to the dance of a shadow).....a warm contrast to the cold, shiny metallic cases. If you could run your hand over any one of these, how would you feel?  What vibe what you pick up from touching it? Could you pick up on the essence of the owner?  Could a person, by touch, by remote viewing, connect through time and space, to learn some innermost working of the owner?  Yes, I believe this is possible, as I have experienced it myself in the past.

Now, turn your attention to what is hidden inside.... listen, if you can, to the potential of perfection, the sound of the oceans roaring through the ages, dividing the continents.  In what forests, in what country, what types of trees, began their lives as a tiny seed, to grow, their branches reaching to the heavens, to span how many decades,  to provide the wood that eventually called out to some luthier somewhere?  Crafted in the 1700's, existing in four different centuries - yes, imagine, four centuries-  three glorious cellos, subdued and encased in their world travelled shells  By themselves,  silent.  When played by their owners, past and present, how they speak a language of their own, and it does not matter what language the listener speaks, as the language of music is universal.  I recently had the privilege of being up close and personal with Apocalyptica in concert.  As someone who has taken up the fiddle in recent years, hearing, feeling the heartbeat of the cello,  I am flooded.  I am amazed, I have been humbled, broken down into the smallest particle of the universe, and yet my heart still beats. That sound. It's big.  It's something.  It's very important.  The Suomi soul wrenched from these bows and strings makes me want to weep with and for something that is so pure, it may be divine.

  

But wait, perhaps it is more than that, or simply less than that. I look up to people like this, not  because of fame, but because of their talent, creativity, knowledge, dedication & hard work.  And somehow what they must feel in their heart to pursue this music is a force that draws me in.  And I also have always been attracted to things aesthetically pleasing to my portrait-artist eye. Such as the photo here.  & perhaps the photographer, ah, ever the flirt, he makes me smile. He has those qualities.  But why would this mean anything to me? Or does it? Perhaps I only feel an affinity for Laplanders due to reading such books as "Dust Ship Glory" (non-fiction, by Richard Scriver, Saskatchewan writer, see: Sukanen Dust Ship) or "Firefox Down", by Craig Thomas, (movie by the same name, featuring Clint Eastwood.)  Or perhaps, like my own country, their land of the Midnight Sun calls out to me.  Perhaps their language, and their names, are just kinda cool.  Perhaps, like the firefox, I just want to sink under a dark Finnish lake; cloaking myself with the sound of Paavo's cello going on forever.  Yes, I am in love.  In love with the cello. Or maybe I just like the metal coming from the Land of the Thousand Lakes.  

Later that night,after the show, I had a recurring nightmare, which I recognize as my subconscious telling me important stories.  

"Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed!"

Happy 99th birthday, RIP Grampa

This is a picture of my grandfather Reginald, who would have been 99 years old today. It is not the greatest picture and a debate ensued in our family if it really was him. But, back in those days, photography being what it was, the exposure was a dreadfully long one, and usually the object cannot remain 100% still for any length of time. The resulting image is usually somewhat blurred and features can look a little 'off'. He never served in the war, being too young for the first, and I guess too old for the second. He went bald at age 14, maybe from the stress of having a mean stepdad who would beat him. He met & married my gramma in LA. My aunt was named the most beautiful baby in LA of 1929.

I was very close to my grampa, both my grampa and my gramma, staying with them every Easter, every summer, and whenever. He was a little guy with a really big heart. After gramma died when I was 16, I would sometimes stay with him overnight and walk to school the next day. I lived 40 miles away from school and the bus ride began at 7:10 am in the winter, so I didn't have to get up as early. We would have a cup of instant coffee and on special occasions he would buy a box of "Flings". That was in the evening. There was no bathroom in the house (this was in 1974-75) so it was the outhouse in the morning. But grampa was never the same after gramma died, and he passed away peacefully in his sleep 3 years to the day gramma left us. They were 3 years apart in age. My mom and her sister are also 3 years apart in age, to the day. My mom had 3 girls, her sister had 3 boys. I guess there are other '3's but I don't remember what they are. Well grampa, I am thinking about you today and having lots of good memories. You were always such a good sport. RIP.

And what have you done? Another year over.....(J.L)

A new year has ushered itself in, and just realizing now that the first decade has ended, (I'm not going to get caught up in how it actually ended in 2009) I find myself questioning even more the accomplishments/goals that have not been attained. Or do I even have goals, or just some vague nebulous ideas that float around and never gain impetus.

A friend of mine just gave me a journal today to start writing down of my goals or ideas. Instead of calling her list "the bucket list" which she finds distasteful, she is calling her list 'the 50 before 50" list. Commendable. When I was her age I had just exited a marriage and one of the things I said in those next years, was, I do not want to be 50 and look back and say all I did was party with so and so. Looking back on my forties I am glad to say that did not happen (because I had to draw a line and boot that person out of my life) and those years were full of accomplishments and relationships and community.

So 3 years into my 6th decade I am again saying to myself, what will I look back and say that I have done with my life? I don't even like saying that I am in my 6th decade but facts are facts. Now good people are coming into my life who are kind and happy and a little farther on the socio-economic scale than the previous people I have attracted into my life. My friend in the picture recently called me and invited me to his art show and healing group. An exceptional young man who has his house gridded with crystals and aromatherapy oils in the paint on the walls. I'm so blessed to have good friends such as these.

But what of the Plan?

Studio

I often walk past this backyard building which is just around the corner from me and wondered about it. What was it, an artist's studio, and if so, why can't I have one like it in my backyard?? On Saturday, I found myself up early and going walking with the dog and the camera so I took a shot of it. Later that same day, I went for coffee at Moka's, which is fairly new and fairly close to my neighborhood, and admired the gorgeous paintings they have displayed. Should have taken the camera there! Paintings of musicians. Jazzy. You can see the artist's work here but not the jazz paintings, unfortunately. For that you'll have to have a coffee at Moka...and I must warn you that the turtle brownies are to die for...and if you can eat the whole thing, you might want to from guilt..(unless you worked for 6 hours in the yard like I did)...But I couldn't even finish my half!